Strange Times
by vtsas
Summary: AU: Dean Winchester is an FBI agent that investigates unusual cases. His brother, Sam, is a recent graduate from Stanford with a doctorate in psychology and now works alongside him. Dean's trying to show Sam what he really does for the bureau…if Sam doesn't figure it out first when an unwanted guest decides to tag along.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: So I had a dream that kind of inspired this… I've never really written anything seriously before. I hope you enjoy! Also, feel free to fact-check or help me out. I'm an avid fan of Supernatural, but I don't think I know every detail. Thanks again for reading!**

**AU: Dean is an FBI agent that investigates unusual cases. Sam is a recent graduate from Stanford with a doctorate in psychology and now works alongside Dean. (Think Dr. Sweets and Booth in Bones, though this isn't a crossover). Dean's trying to show Sam what he really does for the bureau…if Sam doesn't figure it out first when an unwanted guest decides to tag along. **

"Sammy, just—it's hard to explain. Things can just get super… weird." Dean wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel again, finally done gesturing uselessly. Sam adjusted his thin black tie, staring out the window of his brother's signature black Impala. Dean had had the thing since he learned how to drive, which was illegally at the age of ten. Sighing, Sam finally smoothed down the lapel of his suit jacket and turned his gaze to his brother.

"Dean, you're not really making any sense. This job may have some tricky cases, which I've read about in your file, but it's nothing really out of the ordinary for crimes already as heinous as murder," Sam stated calmly. Dean rolled his eyes and slouched back into his seat.

"Aren't you psychology types supposed to be all open-minded liberal types—save the world through brain waves and rainbow auras, or whatever," Dean added casually as he adjusted the volume on the radio. 'Hotel California' floated smoothly from the speakers. Sam ignored the comment, pulling out his laptop from his leather messenger bag. Dean had already called it a manpurse at least twenty times since he started working at the Bureau a few weeks prior, even quoting The Hangover a few times in mock-defense of his younger brother. _No, no, guys, it's a satchel. Ya know, Indiana Jones had one._ He tried to act serious, keeping his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, but it was always his smirk at the end that gave him away. Sam was a rookie after all, even if he was just the psychologist.

A couple hours later, the brothers arrived at an old farmhouse in the-middle-of-nowhere Kansas. Dean shut off the engine and, lifting his clubmaster sunglasses slightly, examined the house before him. It was dirt-washed gray, and the windows were almost black with more dirt and dust. The screen door swayed in the slight breeze that pushed even more dirt across the flat expanse of land the house sat on. Dirt. Everywhere. They had passed fields of tall grasses and random plots of crops, but this place was barren.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore. Sam finally unfolded himself from the car, shooting a look at his brother. "What? With all this dirt, I'm gonna have to clean her tires when we get back," he answered as he stooped down, already spotting a thin layer of black on his rims.

"Yeah… So, what are we doing here?" Sam questioned while putting the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. For all accounts, the house looked completely abandoned. Not just recently, either, but for years. Dean broke out of his mental checklist of things the Impala needed cleaned, and turned his attention briefly to the house, then his brother.

"No, leave that in the car. Don't take anything. I'll, uh, explain later." Dean waited while Sam confusedly put his belongings away. "Okay," he started slowly, "just follow me, and don't touch anything." Sam saluted sarcastically. Dean shoved his sunglasses in his suit jacket's inner pocket as he made his way up the front porch steps, each creaking under the pressure of his weight. No sounds were coming from the house, but when he got to the door, pulling it out of the way, he could hear a brief and quiet rustle come from somewhere inside. Best case scenario, it was just an animal. But again, best case scenario. Dean gently pushed against the main door with his fingertips, having yet to cross the threshold. The thin, wooden door swung away easily with only a whisper of noise following it. Sam sighed loudly from somewhere close behind, and Dean started slightly.

"C'mon, man! Don't do that," Dean whispered out harshly, as he looked back over his shoulder. His 6'5 brother looked down at him, noticing how he was hunched over and almost defensive, which was absurd to Sam, at this point.

"Dean, it's an abandoned house. What are you even doing? What are _we_ doing?" Dean straightened up, leaning his head quickly from side to side to relieve some of the already-accumulated tension. He turned to Sam, pointing at his chest.

"You are following_ my_ orders, seeing as I'm your superior, _and_ your older brother." Dean smiled widely, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Now, shut your trap, and follow me." He began to step in the house, but stopped to emphasize. "_Quietly_." Sam huffed and waited for Dean to continue inside, pausing a moment while he watched as Dean quickly scanned the room.

Dean made his way across a threadbare rug, looking for signs of possible trouble. No sulfur smell, no residue of salt anywhere near the windows or doors. There wasn't even an iron poker by the fireplace, which he could possibly end up needing. His 6'1 frame moved easily in and out of the doorways of the first floor, while Sam stood in the main room, glancing, bored, around his surroundings. Picture frames on the mantel of the fireplace were empty, abandoned, just liked the worn, wooden chairs scattered around the room. A mirror was face-down on the floor, the broken glass a pool around it. Cobwebs dangled across most of the corners and crevices, and there was a strange creaking noise coming from upstairs.

Wait. There was a strange creaking noise coming from upstairs. He looked toward the staircase.

"Hey, Dean. This might sound odd, but it's also kind of fascinating." Dean said 'what' distractedly, still checking the first floor. "Okay, so, there must be some broken windows and wind problems upstairs causing the house to settle strangely, or maybe a door is moving on its old hinges, or maybe there's a rocking chair by one of the broken windows," he rambled on with the beginnings of a smile, his curiosity getting the better of him, trying to solve another puzzle. Dean turned from what was once the dining room, glaring at his brother. Sam noticed, refocusing. "Well, anyway, it almost sounds like footsteps are coming from upstairs." He shrugged, rocking back on his heels, hands in his pants pockets. Dean's eyes widened and shot towards the direction of the stairs.

"Stay here, Sam." Dean crept up the stairs slowly, hoping to catch whatever it was that was shuffling around. Sam stared at his brother's ascending form, slightly confused, but he just went with it and continued perusing around. He found himself dazedly in the kitchen a moment later, lightly touching the surfaces with his fingers. Oddly, they weren't covered in the film of dust he had been used to. The counters almost gleamed, a white-washed wood reflecting the sunlight that shone through the white-framed windows. He shook his head a little, getting a better look at his surroundings. Nothing in this room seemed like the rest that he'd seen. The room was warm, with a tiled floor checkered black and white. The small table by the window had a linoleum surface with a crinkled metal edge and folding legs. The three chairs surrounding it were metal-framed, with bright red, pseudo-leather cushions. A mint green refrigerator gleamed in the corner, and a bright red radio with chrome knobs sat on the counter next to it, its antenna stretched towards the window over the sink. Sam could almost hear the strains of a bubbly doo wop tune, but figured he was just imagining that. He looked towards the back door across the room, a glint catching his eye. On a single coat hook, sparkling in the warm yellow sunlight, was a locket. It was small, delicate, seeming to swing subtly, like someone had just hung it there. His feet carried him to the locket, and before he realized it, he was standing in the middle of the main room, thumbing the warm metal trinket in his pants pocket.

Sam started at the sound of Dean's heavy footsteps making their way down the stairs. He balled his fist around the locket, not sure why he was suddenly wary of having it.

"Nothing. What a total waste," Dean mumbled as he turned on the landing. He looked over at Sam, still in the same spot. At least he listened, but he looked weird. "What's up with you?" Sam shook his head, like he was waking from a daydream.

"Oh, uh, nothing." He shook his head again. "Nothing." He walked towards the kitchen, though, leaving Dean looking like the confused one. The kitchen was dark, the windows caked in dust, a chair upside down on the floor. Gray cabinets and a muddy green fridge gaped open, revealing empty insides. Shocked, Sam walked further into the room, noting that the back door was missing, with boards and planks of wood nailed down to replace the opening. There was no sunlight. And there wasn't a coat hook.

"What? What are we looking for?" Dean questioned, briefly looking into the room he'd already been through. Nothing had changed. It was still dirty and old. Sam looked back at him, tugging at the collar of his pressed, white shirt.

"Uh, nothing. I just—thought I'd check out the state of this room. Yep, abandoned. The whole house." He scratched the back of his neck and changed the subject. "So, why'd we come here again?" Dean looked anywhere besides Sam.

"Oh, uh, the Bureau wanted us to… uh, you know," he gestured around as he started retreating from the room. He shrugged, his mouth stretching down into a frown, still gesturing lamely, "You know, they wanted us to check this place out, see if it was really abandoned. The government wants to reclaim the land… demolish this house, or something." He chuckled awkwardly, then shrugged again, hands back in his pockets. Finally, turning to walk toward the front door, he called out, "You comin', Sammy?"

Sam stood another moment in the kitchen. He could see through the main room and out the open door. Dean was putting his sunglasses back on and climbing into the Impala. He looked down to where his hand was stilled balled in his pocket. He could almost hear the trill of music again and feel the warmth of sunlight seeping into the back of his suit jacket. He looked up again, and the feeling disappeared, like it was never there to begin with. The corner of his mouth stretched into a dimple as he made his way outside. The memory of the vintage kitchen faded as they started the drive back to the motel they'd rented a room in for the night.

And when Dean said, "Hey pretty boy, you'll have time for hair and makeup later. You're getting dirt on the upholstery," as Sam patted away the dust on his suit, he completely forgot about the locket in his pocket, and laughed.

The little, heart-shaped locket etched elegantly with only one word:

_Ruby. _


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So, I'm trying to study, or accomplish any homework for that matter, and this story just won't stay out of my head. I've never had this problem before. Anyway, I guess I'll update, even if it's really soon, and incredibly short. **

"Dean. Dean, hey, Dean, wake up," Sam snipped out as he snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face. Dean was leaning in a cheap, motel-issue chair with his feet propped up on the table. Only two of the chair legs touched the ground, and his head had lolled to the side, supported against the wall. A light snore went uninterrupted by Sam's voice. Well, until Dean's sock-clad feet flew off the table, causing his chair to slam back to the floor. Sam smothered a laugh as a loud snort, followed by a string of profanities, filled the room.

"What the hell, man. You don't do that," Dean complained as he swiped a bag of food off the table, and scratched at the stubble on his face. He unrolled the top of the paper bag, sniffing appreciatively. "Get any pie?" he questioned with a boyish grin. Sam scoffed.

"You really need to stop eating so much processed food. There's a lot of chemicals in that crap," Sam replied as he loosened the tie around his neck.

"Ohhh, go spread your hippy vibes somewhere else," Dean complained around a mouthful of cheeseburger. Sam just laughed and sat on the other side of the table. He began picking at the to-go salad he had bought from the mini-mart-and-gas-station down the road. The lettuce leaves were limp and browning at the edges, so he ate the good bits and leaned back, slightly queasy at the sloppy mess of a brother he had in front of him.

As he went to prop his ankle on his knee, something shifted in his pocket. Strange. He didn't remember having anything in his pocket. He didn't even remember putting his hand in his left pocket anytime recently; he always put things in his right. Sam shifted in his seat until he could wrap his fingers around a small piece of metal and a thin chain. For some reason, he left it there, and shrugged at Dean when he gave him a questioning look. Then they argued over what gluten really was, and they both forgot what happened.

At around 3 AM, Sam stirred in his sleep, feeling restless and unsure why. His sheets felt cold as if he'd just crawled into them, even though he'd been sleeping in them for at least a few hours. He drifted in and out as the red numbers on the digital clock slowly changed.

Roses. He could smell them. The scent hung on the air next to his pillow. Sam blearily thought there could actually be a flower in his bed, so he reached out to either knock it off or bring it closer. He wasn't very into flowers, but he could appreciate their aesthetic appeal. He never understood why women actually wanted them as gifts, at least, but maybe that's because he had such bad allergies as a young adolescent. A tall, gangly body, braces, and spring sneeze never gave cause for a large female following.

Roses. Back to the roses. There they were again, pulling him from the edges of sleep like soft touches. His fingertips swept across the off-white sheets, then stopped suddenly, colliding with a cold object. It was smooth when he delicately tested the surfaces with the pads of his four fingers. So soft, like flower petals… Maybe even rose petals. He followed the lines of the object, and he ran into what felt like knuckles, then the beginnings of thin fingers, but as the gears in his mind started turning and began to register what it really was that he felt, the object just disappeared. Gone. There was nothing, even as he pulled furiously at the sheet beside him.

Then he smelled them for a third time, the roses. But it was a thick, heady scent that caressed at his cheek. He could almost taste them, so he reached to touch his own face, finding his cheekbone was cold, and as he held his palm there, his eyes closed completely. His breathing deepened into a steady rhythm that's only followed by a restful sleep.

When the sunlight drifted through the bent and creased blinds at 7 AM, Sam blinked sleepily. The dust motes that floated and swirled by the window were blurry, just like the pale figure sitting at the table. A white dress with pink shapes, flowers maybe, and pale legs, one bouncing up and down with a white high heel at the end. Dark hair. He couldn't make out any features besides that, and when it registered that a woman was in their motel room, he shot up in bed, his head whipping to the table. She wasn't there, though. Nothing was, just dust motes and leftover fast food napkins.

His pants from the previous day were hanging on the back of the chair where the woman in the flowered dress was. After launching himself from bed, Sam fumbled with the pocket, finding the little trinket. His thumb brushed over the engraving on the front. _Ruby._

Roses. There was a faint scent of them in the air, and he could swear the smell was coming from the locket. Sam even put it up to his nose, thinking that he could indeed smell them. He heard Dean shifting around, the sheets making a swishing noise as the cheap material met more of its own kind.

"Sammy?" Dean's groggy, sleep-scratched voice called out.

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam put the locket back into the pocket of his pants.

"I got dibs on the shower."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Here's another chapter! Please review! I need to know if this story is actually working... **

The black Impala sped down the dirt-covered road of backwoods Nebraska. The sun was shining, and Led Zeppelin blasted from the speakers.

Dean tapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand along with the beat. _Good times, bad times. You know I had my share. _They were headed towards a routine case. Routine for him, at least. Sam had yet to experience the weird and freaky. The abandoned farmhouse was a bust, and Dean still needed to slowly get his brother involved. A haunting would have been easy, but now there was a possibility of other encounters that had him worried. Sam wasn't ready.

He looked over at his younger brother, now shuffling through papers in that manpurse he always carried around. Dean had a briefcase in his trunk. He only used it once—his first day at the bureau almost 8 years ago. He felt like a dork, and tossed it to the side immediately after the day ended. Huh, that could be where he left his lucky pen. He lost that thing forever ago. Sam was now tapping away at his laptop—another thing Dean rarely used…besides for interests of the busty Asian variety, of course.

Sam was starting to fidget. He'd read over the report for the case they were driving to, and he'd gone through everything on his laptop at least once, if not twice. He needed to keep his mind off things.

The motel room from that morning was still haunting him, even though nothing had actually changed. Same awful matching curtains and bedspreads, same cheap chairs and table, and the lime green door still had to be forcibly shut when they locked up and left to check-out.

Ruby. The pale figure. It was her locket. Sam had never seen her before finding it, something he now couldn't forget about. She haunted him.

He wasn't scared of her, per se, but he was definitely unsettled by her presence. The fact that he couldn't explain how she was there and disappeared bothered him. He'd always been a skeptic of ghosts and anything paranormal. Everything had an explanation. He knew—he read all kinds. Vibrations from pipes that cause the peripheral vision to see things that weren't there. Sleep paralysis. Animals that people aren't aware of. Side effects of medication.

None of them explained Ruby, though. He had touched her, felt her skin under his fingers. She had been with him.

Sam had yet to tell Dean about any of it. All he needed was his brother to think he was losing his mind already. Or better yet, believe him. Dean was persistent about things that interested him, to the point he was stubborn and hard to deal with.

He went back to his laptop, clicking through files again, going through anything he had saved. There were some unusually horrific crimes that his brother had dealt with before Sam had even finished his undergraduate. They were peculiar, mainly because a lot of the culprits weren't even found, but they were still closed cases. Why hadn't he noticed this earlier? There was plenty of evidence. DNA, witnesses, even a confession or two.

Why hadn't he realized this before? He was now furious.

Sam looked over at his older brother who was currently fiddling with the AC, swearing under his breath until he finally got it to where he wanted.

Dean looked over, "What? It was getting a little stuffy. I can't roll down the windows with all this di—"

"Why were the cases closed? There was plenty of evidence. Witnesses even!" Sam interrupted.

Dean adjusted his tie and looked out the windshield. "Sammy, just let me explain. It's not that simple."

Sam slammed his laptop shut. "What do you mean it's 'not that simple'? People died, Dean. Don't you think their families would want some kind of closure? To see someone go to jail over it? Some kind of justice?"

Dean clenched his jaw and waited until Sam was a little calmer. "They did get closure, Sam. All of them."

Sam huffed threw his nose, and gave a short, hard laugh. "Oh, they did? How? Nothing was solved. The cases were just closed."

The impala slowed as Dean pulled onto the side of the road. He sat there for a moment before shutting off the engine and climbing out of the car. Confused and pissed off, Sam followed.

Dean took off his sunglasses and lean onto the roof of the car, opposite Sam. They stared at each other for a beat, the heat bearing down on them. There was no shade anywhere nearby. Beads of sweat quickly formed on both of their foreheads, and then Dean started.

"Sam, what I do for the bureau isn't normal. To almost everyone I work with, I'm just a normal field agent. I solve normal cases, and if they aren't solved, no one knows. No one knows what I really do except my superiors' superiors. When you told me you were coming to work for the bureau, I specially requested you as my partner," Dean stopped, sensing Sam wanted to say something.

"Why, Dean? Why did you request me? I'm not even a field agent. I'm a psychologist." Sam had lost a lot of the anger in his features, now replaced with curiosity.

"Because I wanted you to be in this world with me. I was tired of hiding things from you when you'd call to check up. Plus, I feel like you can help me understand things. You understand people and motives. You might be able to understand these things, too," Dean continued.

Sam's eyes narrowed at the word 'things.' The cases or the people involved? If he means an actual _thing_ by 'things'… Animals, maybe? Hardened criminals that shouldn't be considered human? This little talk was getting confusing.

"Look," Dean started again, "I tried telling you yesterday morning. Things can get weird. They _are_ weird, actually. I should've been able to show you that, but things didn't work out how they were supposed to. How I wanted them to. That farmhouse was a total bust. It was supposed to be haunted." Dean glared at his brother when he caught him smirking. "Yes, haunted. There was supposed to be a ghost. Drivers were running off the road in front of the house, and those who could actually remember why, said a woman was standing in the middle of the road. 50s housewife type."

Before Sam could help it, he blurted out, "Ruby."

"Ruby? Who the hell is Ruby?" Dean squinted his eyes, then sudden realization hit him. "You saw her. Sam, you saw her, didn't you?"

Sam scratched at the back of his neck, shifting in his spot. He avoided his brother's gaze. "Uh, well, what do you mean by 'saw'?"

"Did you see her, Sam? You need to tell me." When Sam nodded, Dean swore. "Where? Was it back at the house?"

"Why does that matter?" Sam's brow furrowed. Did it really matter where he saw her? It was just a ghost, if that's what she was.

"Just answer the damn question, Sam." Dean was getting angry. He definitely didn't want to deal with a hitchhiking ghost right now.

"She was… in our motel room?" Dean hit the roof of the car with his fist, then turned towards the road. He was pacing back and forth, thinking.

"Did you take anything from the house?" Sam started to shake his head, but Dean roared, "Dammit, Sam, tell me!" Sam didn't say anything but pulled the locket from his pocket. The heart looked so small and fragile when he laid it on the roof of the car. Dean marched back to the car and snatched at the necklace. The sun was reflecting off of it, like it shined, which already didn't make sense. The surface wasn't event that smooth, and it'd definitely seen some wear and tear.

He threw it on the asphalt, about to go get supplies to burn it. Then she was there.

She flickered at first, like the film of an old movie, completely absent of color. Then it was like she blossomed.

The white of her dress was bright, and the flowers on her dress—roses—were beautiful, even to the men before her. Her hair was coiffed tight, and her eyes smiled a warm brown. She was small, and her chin was raised, almost haughty, while the toe of her white high heel rested gently on top of the locket.

Sam's mouth hung open, both utter disbelief and relief that she existed tugging at him. Dean wasn't as conflicted. He was tense, arms crossed and feet spread apart, holding his ground. She was only feet away from him. He could smell roses.

Her mouth turned up into a smile, and a warm glow surrounded her, more welcoming than off-putting. Dean wasn't used to this kind of… apparition. They'd always been grayish and deeply set into strong emotions like sadness or anger. This one seemed content. Happy, even. It bothered him.

They both watched as she picked up the trinket and put it on. It hung at her throat like it was part of her. It wasn't worn anymore, but new-looking, shiny and smooth. She crossed her arms and walked towards Dean. She was a footstep away when adjusted her posture, taking his stance, feet spread, back straight. Her features settled into something more serious.

Dean's eyebrow lifted as he studied her. Sam started to laugh behind him, and Dean's head shot to the side in question. "Man, she's mocking you," Sam said before laughing more. Dean turned back to the small ghost. She was smiling at him. It looked suspiciously sarcastic.

"I don't like this. We need to get rid of that locket. Burn it with some salt. It'll go away after that," Dean stated as he completely ignored her and made his way to the truck of the Impala.

"Dean, you know she can hear you," Sam admonished as he sent her a sympathetic smile. Then he stopped. Why did he feel bad for a ghost? He looked at her again. She was studying him, almost like she knew what he was struggling with.

Dean was still digging through the truck when she appeared next to him. He jumped. She just stared. He grabbed for the salt again, moving around her to the road. He was about to pour the salt when he realized the locket wasn't on the ground anymore. "Son of a bitch," he swore. "Sam, make your girlfriend give me the necklace," Dean said as he scratched at his sideburn.

"Girlfriend? Dean, what? I can't make her give it to me. You're the one who threw it on the ground," Sam argued back. "And her name is Ruby," he added in afterthought.

"Ruby? I'm not calling it a name." Dean was getting frustrated. He stomped back to the trunk where Ruby still stood. Motionless. It was creepy.

Dean stopped and made a grab for the locket. Ruby looked briefly shocked before disappearing completely. More oaths followed as Dean threw the salt in the trunk and slammed it shut. Sam was grinning over the roof of the car when Dean gruffly climbed inside. Sam followed slowly after.

Dean's jaw was still tense when Sam piped up.

"Ya know, I kinda like her." He laughed when Dean all but growled in response.


End file.
